I hid a shattered forearm beneath my silk opera glove at a press shoot, knowing if my mob boss husband knew I took a hit meant for him, he'd burn the city to ashes.

Clara woke to the sound of metal clinking against glass.

Her eyes fluttered open against the morning sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains. The pain in her arm had graduated from a sharp throb to a sickening, rhythmic beat that synchronized with her racing pulse. She tried to shift onto her back, but an unusual weight held her in place.

Dominic was sitting on the edge of the mattress, fully dressed in a black suit, staring down at her.

Beside him, standing quietly near the vanity with a leather medical bag open on the mahogany stool, was Dr. Marco Rossi—Dominic’s personal, fiercely loyal family physician.

Clara’s heart stopped. She instinctively tried to tuck her left arm beneath the charcoal duvet, but Dominic’s hand darted out with lightning speed, catching her right wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.

“Don't,” he said softly.

His voice wasn’t loud. It held none of the thunderous rage he reserved for rivals or traitorous lieutenants. It was entirely flat, depleted of air, carrying the terrifying gravity of a deep winter frost.

Clara looked from Dominic to Dr. Rossi, her chest heaving against the silk sheets. “Dominic… please. It’s not what it looks like.”

“It looks like an untreated distal radius fracture held together with hobby glue and department-store bandages,” Dominic said, his gray eyes locking onto hers with agonizing intensity. “Is that what it is, Clara?”

Tears sprang instantly to her eyes, hot and humiliating. “Dominic—”

“How long did you think you could keep this from me?” he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. “Until the bone fused crooked? Until you lost mobility in your fingers? Did you really think you could wear twenty-inch gloves to dinner every night for the next two months?”

“You would have killed them!” Clara cried out, the dam finally breaking as tears spilled down her pale cheeks. She didn't care about the dignity of the Carretti name now; she only saw the man she loved on the verge of driving his life into an abyss. “I saw your face in that garage! If you knew that man broke my arm, you wouldn't have listened to the council. You wouldn't have waited for the security review. You would have marched into Salvatore Falco’s home with forty men and turned this city into a graveyard!”

Dominic didn't flinch. His expression remained carved from granite, but his thumb moved slowly across the back of her uninjured hand, rubbing small, mechanical circles against her skin.

“He broke your arm,” Dominic said, each word distinct, sharp as a straight razor. “A stranger swung an iron bar at my skull, and you put your body between me and the strike. He shattered the bones in your wrist, Clara. And you stood under an eighty-thousand-dollar chandelier and smiled for a family portrait so I wouldn't seek retribution?”

“Yes!” she sobbed, the raw truth tearing out of her. “Because you would have died, Dominic! If you break the treaty now, the five families won't stand behind you. Leo said it himself—the Commission is looking for an excuse to eliminate the Carretti line. If you start this war over me, you won't survive it!”

Dominic went completely still.

Across the room, Dr. Rossi cleared his throat quietly, his professional detachment barely masking his discomfort. “Dominic. We need to cut away that fiberglass immediately. The circulation in her distal extremities is compromised. If that swelling continues under a rigid, unpadded cast, she risks permanent compartment syndrome.”

Dominic stood up. He didn't drop his gaze from Clara’s face for a second. “Fix it, Marco. Give her whatever she needs for the pain. If she feels so much as a twinge, I will throw you out of that window.”

“Dominic, wait—” Clara reached out with her good hand, catching the cuff of his jacket. “What are you going to do?”

He reached down, gently peeling her fingers away from his sleeve, holding them to his lips. His mouth was cold.

“I’m going to make sure your sacrifice wasn’t in vain,” he whispered. “Rest, Clara.”

He turned on his heel and strode out of the bedroom, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind him with the finality of a prison cell.

In the long hallway outside, Leo Navarro was already waiting, leaning against the wainscoting with a double espresso in his hand. Leo was forty-two, slick, polished, with silver streaks running through his immaculate dark hair and an easy, predatory smile that had charmed half the city’s political elite.

“Morning, cousin,” Leo said, pushing off the wall. “You missed the eight o’clock security briefing. The boys are restless. Falco’s lieutenants were spotted moving crates near the north basin again. If we don’t hit them today, we look toothless.”

Dominic didn't break his stride. He walked straight toward his private study, his long legs eating up the marble floor.

“Dominic?” Leo hurried after him, his brows knitting in frustration. “Did you hear me? We have thirty soldiers staged at the warehouse on Fourth. We just need your green light.”

Dominic reached the double doors of his study, pushed them open, and turned around in the doorway, blocking his cousin’s entry.

“Clara’s arm is broken,” Dominic stated, his eyes boring into Leo’s skull.

Leo blinked, his expression shifting from impatient aggression to momentary confusion. “What? When? Did she take a fall?”

“At the Grand Meridian,” Dominic said. “Tuesday night. The hitman with the iron pipe didn't miss. She stepped into the swing.”

Leo’s eyes widened, a sudden, bright flare of opportunistic triumph flashing across his features before he quickly tucked it beneath a mask of outrage. “My God… that animal laid hands on Clara? Dominic, that’s it! That’s an open declaration! Salvatore Falco broke the accord. Let me make the call. I’ll have Falco’s front door blown off its hinges before noon!”

Dominic didn't reach for his phone. He didn't raise his voice. He merely studied his cousin’s face—the subtle dilation of Leo’s pupils, the way his fingers twitched against his espresso cup, the absolute absence of genuine surprise.

“No,” Dominic said flatly.

Leo froze. “No? Dominic, she’s your wife! The Carretti matriarch! If the city finds out you let the Falcos break her arm without burning their empire to the ground, every low-level lieutenant from here to Jersey will come for your throat!”

“I said no,” Dominic repeated, stepping into his office and beginning to push the heavy door shut. “The treaty stands. Call off the soldiers at Fourth Street.”

“Dominic, this is madness!” Leo barked, jamming his hand against the wood to stop the door.

Dominic looked down at Leo’s hand, then up into his cousin’s eyes with a look so cold, so terrifyingly predatory, that Leo instinctively pulled his fingers back as if scorched.

“I will handle the investigation myself,” Dominic said softly. “If I find out someone in this city touched my wife, Leo… a bullet through the head will be the greatest mercy they receive.”